Hebron: Israel killed this city

Nadezhda Kevorkova has worked at RT since 2010, before which she was a special correspondent for ‘Novaya gazeta,’ ‘Nezavisimaya gazeta,’ and ‘Gazeta.’ Kevorkova has also worked extensively in Russian mass-media. As a war correspondent, she covered the Arab Spring, military and religious conflicts, and the anti-globalization movement. She has worked as a reporter in Egypt, Sudan, Palestine, Jordan, Lebanon, Syria, Iraq, Iran, Pakistan, Azerbaijan, Ukraine, Hungary, Greece, Turkey, Cuba, and in the republics of the North Caucasus, Tatarstan, and in the Far East. In 2001, after an invitation from US State Department, Kevorkova visited a number of states, including Alaska. As a correspondent of 'Gazeta' she reported from Indian settlements in the US. She covered the ‘Gaza Freedom Flotilla’ in 2008, 2010 and 2011; she also visited Gaza several times during the blockade. In 2010, Kevorkova was nominated for the ‘International Women of Courage’ award.

The front entrance to the tomb. There is no entry for Palestinians here (Photo by Nadezhda Kevorkova)

Palestinians believe Hebron has been used to test methods now applied on a wider scale in Jerusalem, such as building settlements on Palestinian territory, installing checkpoints, seizing sanctuaries and taking away jobs and food from the people.

Palestinians are convinced that the de-Palestinization of
Jerusalem, including taking away their sanctuaries, lands,
houses, cafes, and shops, and squeezing Palestinians out of
Palestine, is taking place according to the same scenario that
had already been used in Hebron, the city of Abraham (Ibrahim).

Hebron is located some 30 km from Jerusalem.

“We lost Al-Haram (aka the Ibrahimi Mosque) the way we lost
al-Quds (aka Jerusalem),“ says Taghrid al Mehidseb, 40. She
lives in Hebron’s Old City, taking care of children.

She hasn’t visited Jerusalem for 20 years. Since then, she would
be required to get a special pass to access the city, which she
as a Palestinian would not be granted.

She has no children of her own, but her sister has a whole bunch
of them.

For Hebron’s Palestinians, eras are divided into “before
occupation” and “after occupation,” namely, since 1967.

"We have no control over anything here. On Jewish holidays,
not only the mosque is closed off to Palestinians, but so are the
stores and stalls. It’s a no entry zone. They shut the mosque
gates whenever they want by closing the checkpoint, without even
a warning or an explanation," Taghrid says.

Why Hebron?

Called al Khalil in Arabic, it is one of the world’s oldest
cities.

Hebron is a Palestinian autonomy, rather than a part of Israel.
Its population is around 180,000 people, or up to half a million
if you count the suburbs. I haven’t met a single Palestinian
policeman there, but there are lots of Israeli troops,
checkpoints and military hardware in the city, watching over the
safety of 800 settlers.

The city is home to the Cave of the Patriarchs (Al-Haram), where
Abraham (Ibrahim), his son Isaac (Yitzchak), and his grandson
Jacob (Ya’akov) are buried, as well as their wives Sarah, Rebecca
and Leah. Muslims believe Ibrahim, Yitzchak, and Ya’akov are
prophets. A large mosque stands over the burial cave.

For Jews, Hebron is the second sacred city after Jerusalem.

Up until 1994, Muslims, Christians and Jews alike were free to
come to the mosque. On February 25, 1994, an armed Palestinian,
US repatriate Dr. Baruch Goldstein, opened fire on Muslims in
prayer in the mosque, killing 29 people and wounding 150. Since
then, the mosque was split into the Jewish and Muslim sections.
Settlers seized a part of town, which they called the Jewish
district. And a large settlement grew next to the city.

Jewish districts and the Cave of the Patriarchs are guarded by
the Israeli Defense Force. There are two dozens of permanent and
temporary checkpoints across the city. Palestinians are banned
from going inside the guarded areas.

Two sides of one tomb

The road to the mosque lies through the old market, which ends
with bars, revolving gates and an Israeli checkpoint. Then
there’s another checkpoint where you have to open your bags, show
your cell phones and other equipment, and show your ID. Any
Palestinian could be detained here.

There are several soldiers at the checkpoint. They inspect my
bag, and ask questions:

“Are you a Muslim?”

“I’m Russian Orthodox.”

“As a Russian Orthodox, you have to go through here.”

This means going to the mosque through the entrance for
Palestinians. The other entrance is a synagogue for Jews and
tourists.

The Muslim entrance is on the side of the building, but their
part of the mosque still has the two wells over the cave with the
tombs of the patriarchs, where people place lamps and put their
notes. One can barely see Jews praying behind the three rows of
bars.

A Palestinian woman peeps through the keyhole of a large ancient
door between the Jewish and the Muslim parts, and pulls away.

“There’s an eye there! And it’s watching…”

The large prayer hall is decorated with carpets. I am pointed to
the spots where Goldstein came from, where the dead and wounded
were lying, and where he was killed as well.

“Before that incident, Jews were praying anywhere in the
mosque, even though the army was prohibiting them from entering
the mosque. Then after Goldstein’s massacre they seized the
mosque, as if fulfilling his will, although he was a criminal.
Now they’ve separated the mosque, and they can close it off for
us any time they want. They can always go to the mosque, whereas
we have to wait for their permission,” explains an elderly
Palestinian, the maintenance man of the mosque.

“We don’t let our kids go anywhere, as Israeli soldiers
abduct children, and search and question them. If a child
disappears we cannot even go looking for him, we have no right to
go beyond their checkpoints,” comments a Palestinian woman
with grandchildren.

“We suffer from numerous bans and restrictions. It’s hard to
explain, but it affects our everyday life,” she adds.

To enter the Jewish part of the mosque, one has to walk down the
street with new souvenir shops, which look like they are never
visited by tourists. Then you walk by several lines of Israeli
soldiers, military hardware and an access barrier. You don’t get
checked here; soldiers merely glance casually at rare bypassing
settlers.

The whole large front yard with a garden, olive trees, fountains
and flowers belongs to the Jewish part, and so does the main
entrance with a large marble porch and a beautiful staircase.

A lone Jew wearing a hat is praying near the tomb wall. The main
entrance is meant for Jews and tourists only, whereas
Palestinians aren’t allowed to use it. The third entrance is
closed altogether.

An armed female soldier is sitting at the entrance. There are no
women wearing long skirts or head covers, although some are
praying hard with their hair down. The worshipers are divided
into separate chambers by partitions. Next to them is a
particularly noisy room with tables and benches, where groups of
pilgrims enjoy their snacks.

There are several Jewish fast-food stalls at the exit. Several
settler families with lots of children are having their meal
there.

Ibrahim’s soup

The city is filled with morning sunshine. Some stalls and stores
are open. Numerous children are carrying blue buckets, thermos
flasks, pots and even kettles. They are on their way to get
Ibrahim’s soup.

Legend has it that Ibrahim once fed three travelers. Theologians
called them angels. In the Russian Orthodox tradition, it is
believed that this particular scene is portrayed on the Russian
icon, Trinity, by Andrei Rublev.

The tradition of feeding soup to hungry pilgrims and needy locals
has remained, in memory of Ibrahim’s hospitality.

Lots of children of various ages are waiting outside a two-story
building not far from the mosque, holding their blue containers.
The Palestinian women who brought me here stopped at the market
to buy several containers, which keep your soup or tea hot for
several hours.

Chef Waddah al Jabari has been working in the soup kitchen for 20
years. He has four assistants helping him. He is stirring a
steaming brew in a huge pot. The food, cooking and building
maintenance are funded by donations.

Waddah al Jabari makes enough soup to feed 50-60,000 people
daily. On “meat days,” he uses 1,200 kilos of poultry, and 5,000
kilos of meat. On Mondays he makes chicken soup, and on Fridays,
meat soup. When I came there it wasn’t a meat day, so he cooked a
delicious fragrant wheat and spices soup.

“I prefer getting meat and other food products from people
directly, rather than buying them with donations,” says the
chef.

His father worked in the soup kitchen for 40 years. His brothers
also worked at this place.

“Ibrahim’s soup has been served here for over a thousand
years. In Jordanian times [Jordan was in charge of the West Bank
until 1967], they destroyed the old kitchen next to the mosque.
This is the third building since then. Initially the soup kitchen
was a large 50-room building where people used to have
soup," says Waddah.

Kids who’ve just barely learned to walk push their little
containers through the window.

“I am reluctant to give hot soup to the little ones, but what
can you do? Their parents send them over,” says the cook.

Soup is served not only in the city but also in villages, where a
lot of poor people live who cannot afford other food.

Cobbler from Al Khalil

A cobbler is a traditional trade in Hebron, and there about 300
workshops with almost 30,000 people repairing shoes.

Cobbler Samer is 40. Over the centuries, his relatives have been
buried at a local cemetery. He grew up and studied at school in
al Khalil, and like his ancestors, has he been making and selling
shoes for years.

“I have seven children,” says Samer. “I’ve been
unable to make a penny for two months. You can see that the city
is empty. There’s no work here.”

He is desperate, but he says he is not leaving Hebron.

“We don’t even send our children to get Ibrahim’s soup.
Praise the Almighty, we’re still alive. We don’t take that soup
because we have food. I can always borrow from my relatives, as
some of them are well-off. We help each other, and we’ll keep
going for as long as we can,” Samer says.

Unlike many Palestinians, Samer visited Jerusalem last week,
although it wasn’t for any happy reason.

“My aunt had cancer, so I was granted a permission to stay
with a patient for three days,” he says. “It was a permit for one
hospital only; I was unable to leave it under threat of being
arrested. The permit had the name of the hospital written on it,
so I just followed my aunt by bus straight to the hospital. I
wasn’t allowed to stay there overnight, as my papers indicated
the time when I had to leave. But some people stayed at the
hospital according to their papers, which prohibited them from
going out.”

Samer didn’t want his photos taken, he says. Next time he
wouldn’t be given a permit if he is too open with the media, he
explains.

How to kill a city

Any walk you take in Al Khalil always ends in a blind alley,
which means there are settlers living on the other side of the
wall.

The longest shopping street is covered with nets, and even with
cover-up film. Shop keepers explain that the top floors are taken
by settlers. Occasionally the latter throw garbage and spill
waste right on the heads of passers-by.

You cannot see any settlers by looking at the top floors. The
windows are closed with blinds. However, you can see checkpoints
on the roofs at crossroads, and soldiers enjoying the sunshine
under Israeli flags.

“Settlers can throw down eggs, or something worse,” says a
local shopkeeper. “What else can we do other than cover up with a
net? Our police cannot fine them, whereas the Israeli army
doesn’t notice their wrongdoing. The court doesn’t consider our
complaints.”

Muhammad Shadit, 75, is sitting near an old district mosque. This
used to be a flourishing area, which now features a shabby
municipal building separated from a deserted garden with a net.
On the other side a Jewish educational facility is being built.
There’s a dumpster near the net on the Israeli side.

“I used to have a good store, but it’s not working like it
used to,” says the old man.

He explains that 12 years ago this district was taken over by the
new settlers, who kicked out Palestinians and closed all stores
according to martial law. The Palestinians had no right to
challenge it or ask for compensation.

“Our madrasah was captured, and now they are building their
yeshiva instead,” says Muhammad, pointing at the tall
building behind the net rising above old two-story Palestinian
houses.

“No Palestinian can access the part of the city seized by
them. Even Palestinians living in Israel cannot get there. Even
Palestinian parliamentarians have to request permission, which is
not promised to them either,” he adds.

He takes me farther down the street into a similar dead end:

“This used to be a bus station and one was able to take a bus
to Amman,” he says. “That was before the occupation; and
even after the occupation the living wasn’t that bad. Things
changed after Goldstein’s massacre. Even azan in the Ibrahimi
Mosque is now prohibited," complains the old Palestinian.

"This used to be a lively street, up until the year 2000, and
now it’s empty. There’s no transport or tourism. Israel killed
this city, and they want us gone from it. I am not afraid, I’ve
got nothing to lose. We Palestinians have nothing to lose
anymore,” he explains.

“It’s dangerous to go there like this, they won’t let you
though,” the Palestinian women warn.

“We’ll see,” I replied.

Five hundred meters later I see the first checkpoint, with
Israeli soldiers sitting on chairs. They flip my journalist ID
back and forth, make a call, and let me through.

I walk past empty buildings with Israeli graffiti on them. Here
and there you can see Palestinian families holding on to their
apartments on second floor. They have barred windows, and posters
with calls to the international community, the UN and mankind.
The entrances are walled up, so they can only leave their
apartments by going into the Palestinian area.

Occasionally you run into settlers, most of them carrying arms.
Schoolgirls pass by. Nobody wants to stop and answer questions;
instead they speed up and turn their faces away from the camera.
An American tourist couple leaves the settlement.

To your right, you can see buildings seized by settlers, and to
your left, an old cemetery. And up the hill there’s a Palestinian
village.

I climb up a wobbly staircase to look at the graves, but the
access to the cemetery is blocked by coils of barbed wire
everywhere.

I see people gesturing and yelling something from the hill road.
Finally I realize that it’s some Palestinian teenagers who want
to know who I am and whether I understand how dangerous it is for
me to be there wearing a head scarf, and that I could be taken
for a Muslim or a Palestinian. They mimic shooting a rifle to
demonstrate what could happen to a Palestinian woman.

But the soldiers don’t even look out of their large checkpoint.
The atmosphere of dormancy and inertness is all around.

A soldier walks past me toward the wall between the battlements
and the city, turns round the corner, and a minute later walks
back. He appeared to be going to the toilet.

Two hours ago, I was talking to old Muhammad on the other side of
this very wall, and he was telling me that Israel had killed the
city. What was the purpose of that? To kick Palestinians out of
their homes, to take away their jobs, and to pee in old
Palestinian backyards, and to throw garbage on their heads?

Certainly settlers don’t think about it in these terms. They
believe this land belongs to them by the word of God, and their
graffiti claims their right to it.

Withered symbol of meeting

The Monastery of the Holy Trinity is located at the other end of
Hebron. The gate is locked, and the Palestinian gatekeeper
pretends not to notice us driving up to the gate and honking.

Finally, he comes up to us and says that he can’t let anyone in,
because Israeli soldiers are coming soon. He leaves, but comes
back in a bit, opening the gates and asking us to finish up
quickly.

A road approximately 1km long leads through a grove to the
monastery. A small group of Russian pilgrims from Moscow are
praying along with the priest inside the church.

Young novitiate Dmitry has been here for three years. He was born
in Sochi.

Novitiate Abraham first came here in 1993. He returned after the
monastery, formerly owned by the Russian Orthodox Church Abroad,
came under the jurisdiction of the Russian Orthodox Church.

He recalls that in 1997 and 2000 the late Patriarch Alexy came
here.

Orthodox Christians don’t have it easy in the Holy Land either.

“You have to wait for a year and a half for a religious visa,
it’s very hard to get. But it allows you to travel all over the
country,” Abraham says.

“We are not allowed into the settlement, and they spit in our
face in synagogues. The elderly spit on the ground, and look
upset when we smile. The young ones spit right in our
faces...” Abraham says.

He visited the Ibrahimi Mosque a number of times and prayed there
before it was divided into two parts. He visited it afterward as
well.

He doesn’t recall there being problems with the Palestinians.

“The mosque didn’t use to have partitions, you could pray
anywhere. On the Muslim half of it people are still friendly and
kind,” Abraham tells us.

“We live with Muslims around – in our part of town there are
no Jews or Christians,” he explains.

He says that no one has gone down the caves where the patriarchs’
graves are for many centuries.

“The caves were closed in 1470, but people still throw coins
and notes in the wells. They disappear, so I guess someone picks
them up,” he says.

He explains that the Oak of Mamre, which is said to mark the
place where Abraham entertained the three strangers, is on the
territory of the monastery.

“Jews come to the Oak to pray. Back when it was allowed to
come close to it, they used to put notes into the bark... It’s
some kind of new paganism, like with the Wailing Wall,”
Abraham says.

“The oak withered in 1996, and in 1997 the Palestinian
authorities gave this whole territory with the Oak, the garden
and the monastery to the Russian Orthodox Church. It’s a very
strong tree – you can do whatever you like to it, even burn it,
but still new sprouts appear.”

I walk up to the Oak of Mamre. There are no new sprouts.

It’s hard to get rid of the thought that the very symbol of
Abraham meeting the three angels has withered and died.

The dead tree is surrounded by a fence. There are baskets with
acorns next to it, a memento for visitors if they want one. The
oak has not produced a single acorn for a long time, but there
are other oaks growing nearby, and their acorns are gathered for
tourists and pilgrims.

The siren wails and the brakes screech as a number of Israeli
military cars stop in front of the oak, forming a semi-circle and
cutting off the road. Soldiers and officers take pictures with
the oak in the background, laughing and joking about, talking via
radio.

I approach them and ask if any of them speak Russian.

Private Dima has blond hair and doesn’t consider himself a Jew.
He repatriated with his family after the collapse of the USSR.
His mother is Christian, and she went to live in Spain, while he
and his father remained here. They live close to Hebron, and this
is where he serves, too.

“We just came here for an excursion. No one is religious in
my regiment. This is never going to be over. This conflict is
2,000 years old. All the problems arise from the settlers,
they’re very zealous,” Dima says.

The part where the army protects the settlers, including in
Hebron, he considers “a political issue.”

“What’s the point in talking about politics?” Dima asks.

The soldiers step back to let through my Palestinian guides in
their car. We leave the premises of the monastery, and see a
group of Palestinian boys outside the gates, waiting to throw the
stones they are holding at the Israeli soldiers.

The statements, views and opinions expressed in this column are solely those of the author and do not necessarily represent those of RT.